Sherlock Holmes and the Great Cooking Disaster
by Frakme
Summary: Sherlock suddenly decides to cook after John goes on a healthy eating kick. Disaster ensues. JohnLock, established relationship, domestic fluff.


**A/N inspired by a piece of art by purrlockholmes on Tumblr.**

John stared morosely at his special chow mein.

"You know, I can't go on lecturing my patients on the importance of healthy eating if I don't practise what I preach," he said, pushing the half eaten meal away.

Sherlock merely grunted, engrossed in his laptop. John glanced quickly at it and wished he hadn't, glad he had finished eating as the gruesome pictures the younger man was avidly studying were enough to kill his appetite. _Perhaps I should give my obese patients a list of Sherlock's favourite websites to help them lose theirs!_ he thought, ruefully.

"I don't know how you can eat when looking at that," said John frowning at Sherlock mechanically stuffing his face with his beef curry and rice.

"Two disconnected activities that bear no relation to each other," said Sherlock, absently. "You associate food with more than a need for fuel; you experience food with all of your senses. Then you combine your sensory inputs with sometimes unfortunate consequences. Such as your revulsion over these images, which are merely data."

John shook his head and started to clear away the remains of their takeaway, noticing that Sherlock had also pushed his away. He did note with relief that the taller man had eaten nearly all of his. They had been on a case for the past three days and this was the first time Sherlock had eaten a proper meal since he'd agreed to take it on.

He thought about storing the leftovers but elected to bin the lot. He then looked in the fridge. Milk, mouldy cheese, a bowl full of eyeballs, three bottles of Bombardier, half an apple pie cooked by Mrs Hudson, four different types of jam which had all been opened and a shallow tray containing no less than 5 blood plasma bags. And if that wasn't bad enough, he picked up another tupperware box which, when he held it up to examine it, he realised it contained live maggots. He dropped it onto the counter.

"SHERLOCK! This is the _last _bloody straw!"_  
_

The dark haired man looked at up, registering the irate tone in the older man's voice. John took a deep breath when he saw he had Sherlock's attention.

"I'm going on Appliances Online. I am going to buy a new fridge. You can use this one to put whatever you bloody like in it, but the new fridge will be for food. Of the variety that we cook and eat. Not what you want to experiment with!"

John located his laptop and his wallet, then checked the balance in their joint account. Satisfied they had sufficient funds, due to a few lucrative cases, he started to search for a suitable fridge freezer. Soon, he had one ordered for next day delivery.

"I suppose I should've done this long ago," said Sherlock, coming to look over at John's shoulder. "Cross contamination of samples can be a problem at times."

John rolled his eyes.

"I really hope I don't need to get a lock for the new fridge!"

* * *

The new fridge arrived and once it was at the proper temperature, John took himself off to Tesco to stock it up. He came back laden with carrier bags of fresh fruit and vegetables, lean meat and fish, milk, three types of cheese, sandwich meats, salad and low fat dressing, as well as staples for the store cupboards, the ones that didn't contain mutagenic, teratogenic or generally poisonous substances. He shuddered remembering the time he was rooting under the sink for a plunger when he found a small vial labelled 'picric acid'.

He then set about preparing a low fat spaghetti bolognaise. After clearing the table of Sherlock's latest experiments, involving the eyeballs, various different corrosive substances and litmus paper, he dished up. He was pleased to note that Sherlock, when eventually he made it to the table, cleared his plate.

"That'll put some colour in your cheeks," commented John with a grin. "Your iron levels have been a bit low."

"Have you been stealing my blood samples again?" demanded Sherlock, sulkily. John looked at him coolly.

"Turnabout's fair play, Sherlock. You don't seem to have any qualms about stealing my bodily fluids for testing."

Sherlock merely hurumphed and got up from the table to check his 'phone.

* * *

This continued for nearly a week; John would cook a delicious, healthy meal, and he and Sherlock would eat together. It was a quiet week for the consulting detective, Lestrade had only offered a few cases which either took hardly any time at all or were duller than the detective's current activity which involved the maggots, some unclaimed limbs he had acquired from Molly and John _really_ didn't want to know the rest of the details.

John, on the other hand, was very busy. The surgery had one doctor off sick, another on holiday so he had plenty of shifts to do. He was badly looking forward to the weekend, by Friday he was exhausted. Then Sarah pleaded him with to stay an extra three hours as Geoff, who was scheduled on the late shift had a household emergency to deal with so would be late. John knew Sarah would've only asked him if she was desperate and so he reluctantly agreed. He texted Sherlock to let him know he wouldn't be finished until eight.

Wearily, he went back to his office to wait for his next patient, thinking that perhaps as they'd been good all week, he could order a takeaway on the way home.

* * *

Sherlock glanced at his 'phone to read the message from John. He was disappointed and bored; he'd heard nothing from Lestrade today and his mother had called him to ask him to bring John to lunch on Sunday. He needed an excuse to get out of it, he knew John would make him go, for some reason the doctor was inordinately fond of the Holmes parents. It'd got to the point where he was seriously considering inventing a case to get him and John out of the flat for the weekend. Perhaps somewhere on the Downs, he knew John enjoyed their last trip down there.

He went into the kitchen in search of biscuits, he was even contemplating making himself a cup of tea. He looked over at the shiny new white fridge which sat in the corner, then back at the old one. He opened the new one, then the old one, noting that the new one was approximately two degrees colder than the one John had firmly designated as his. He shut the door to the old fridge and looked at the neatly arranged food in the new fridge. He rolled his eyes as he noticed a note taped to the inside of the door, in John's scruffy writing:

**_Don't even think about it,_ _Sherlock!_**

Clearly he was becoming too predictable, as he reluctantly abandoned his plans to put samples of _Clostridium difficile_ in both fridges to compare the rate of replication at low temperatures.

He shut the fridge again and noted the unusually tidy state of the kitchen. Since John had been on his healthy eating drive, he had been monomaniacal about keeping the kitchen clean and tidy, threatening all sorts of dire consequences if he found Sherlock experimenting in the kitchen again. All this healthy eating had made his doctor positively tyrannical. He knew it wouldn't last and he predicted that John was already thinking about a takeaway tonight. John had made chicken and lentil curry the previous night, so it wouldn't be an Indian. He also dismissed a Chinese as John had found the last one unsatisfactory, most likely due to the change of ownership. Therefore it was likely to be pizza, that was something they hadn't had in a while. Pizza wasn't particularly appealing to the detective.

Then as he stood in the kitchen, he had an e_ureka_ moment.

"I shall cook," he said out loud. "John will be tired and short tempered when he comes home tonight, so I will cook us a feast to be ready for when he gets home."

He started pulling out pots and pans, then raided the fridge and cupboards, noting that John would have to go shopping again the next day as they were running low on a lot of things, mainly fresh food. Still, there was plenty here to give him inspiration. He had all the major food groups and was confident he could come up with a meal that was both nutritious, aesthetically pleasing and a pleasure for the palate. He'd observed John derived much enjoyment from a good meal and Sherlock derived pleasure from seeing his John happy.

As he began preparing ingredients, he hummed to himself. _It's simply a chemical reaction, transforming raw ingredients into a finished product by way of mixing and thermal application._ Hardly a difficulty for a mind as great as his, even though he had deleted all information pertaining to cooking years ago.

He was confident John would be grateful for his efforts.

* * *

John sent a text to Sherlock at around seven thirty to let him know he was on his way home. Luckily Geoff was able to solve his household crisis a little sooner than expected so had got to the surgery a little earlier, for which the tired army doctor was grateful. In the cab home, he rang the pizza place and put an order in for delivery, he didn't think it likely Sherlock would've have eaten without him. The cab arrived at Baker Street and he paid the driver, trudging wearily up to the front door. He opened it to find Mrs Hudson rushing towards him, flapping her hands.

"Oh thank goodness, Doctor. I don't know _what_ Sherlock is doing this time but you need to put a stop to it!" He glanced up the stairs, hearing various crashes and smelling an unpleasant odour wafting down the stairs.

John marched up the stairs with their landlady following him. Opening the door, his heart sank as he witnessed the chaos and saw the smoke billowing out of the kitchen.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Sherlock!" he snapped, momentarily forgetting Mrs Hudson behind him. "What are you doing? I haven't got the energy for this!"

"I'll leave you boys to it," the petite widow said, deciding discretion was very much the better part of valour as she escaped out the door.

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, looking somewhat discommoded, his bathrobe singed and what looked like flour, in his hair.

"Have you set fire to yourself again?"

"It was a small conflagration, John. Nothing to worry about! And you're early! I wasn't expecting you for another... thirty seven minutes!"

"Geoff got in early. Now you need to clear up your mess, pizza'll be arriving in fifteen minutes!"

Sherlock looked crestfallen. Even though he'd earlier deduced John's actions, he'd been too busy to text John to tell him not to order anything.

"But I've cooked!"

John approached the cooker with trepidation. The work surfaces either side were covered with dirty pots and utensils, opened jars of pasta sauce and herbs, an empty baked beans tin, several cracked eggs and a large pile of raw chicken giblets. The smoke had been coming from a large stock pan, which contained a blackened mess, that he thought, glancing in, used to be fusilli pasta.

He grabbed the handle of the pot and shouted as he realised it was still hot. Checking all the rings were off, he found the oven gloves and lifted the pot, dumping it in the sink, which was filled with worryingly murky water.

He turned to Sherlock, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

"What were you cooking?" he asked, incredulously. "On second thoughts, maybe I'd be better off not knowing. You're going to help me clear this mess up!"

John stalked off to their bedroom, to change in to a t-shirt and joggers. When he returned, they made a start, with much grumbling from the taller man but the bell rang, announcing the arrival of the pizza delivery. John grabbed his wallet and ran downstairs. A few minutes later he was back, toting a couple of pizza boxes, which he dumped on the just cleared kitchen table.

They ate their pizza in silence, Sherlock picking random bits off as he did so, then John took the boxes down to the bins. On returning he found Sherlock still sat looking morose.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have deleted Mummy's cooking lessons," he admitted.

"Maybe you should just leave the cooking to me," John suggested with a grin. "It's obvious you can't cook for shit!"

They got up and commenced the kitchen clear up and Sherlock was unusually cooperative. As John stood at the sink washing the last of the pots, Sherlock came up behind him. Putting his arms around the smaller man, he rested his chin in his shoulder.

"I am a useless prat at times," he said miserably. "The mundane tasks of every day life often confound me."

"That's why you keep me around, Sherlock," said John smiling, wiping a hand on his t-shirt before reaching up to run a hand through his partner's curls. "So I can take care of the mundane and you can go on being bloody brilliant."

The detective smiled and pressed his lips to John's cheek.

"I keep you around for other things too," he said. "Finish up and I'll explain it to you in exacting detail."


End file.
